


Eggshells

by Haeronwen



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Anger, Insecurity, M/M, Snowed In, and baked goods, but also sex, lots of anger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haeronwen/pseuds/Haeronwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur doesn't run into his ex-boyfriends in department stores, like a normal person.  He gets trapped with them in lake houses for long weekends, even when they’re <em>supposed</em> to be the other side of the Atlantic Ocean charming complete strangers into selling treasured family heirlooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggshells

Arthur pulls up to the house just before five.  There are bottles clinking at his feet and a bag of presents, meticulously wrapped in tissue and ribbon, on the passenger seat, because their lives are all disparate enough now that exchanging gifts in January is the best they can manage.  Is an improvement, even: last year it was February, and not all at once.  He had Mal’s lambskin gloves sitting on his kitchen table for months.

To be expected, really.  They all went their own ways after graduating.  Ariadne fucked off to Paris for grad school after a six week crash course in the language (to this day Arthur suspects Mal’s syllabus consisted mainly of Chanel and expletives).  Robert took up the expected position at Fischer-Morrow.  Dom and Mal, meanwhile, had the world’s most dramatic break up, with a lot of shouting about _putains_ and The Real World finally culminating in the tragic demise of Yusuf’s Lionel Richie mug.

And Arthur, having established that there would be no more throwing of other people’s possessions, went ahead and took that finance job he’d managed to convince almost everyone he wanted and ran away as fast as his shiny new Oxfords would carry him.

Four—no, _five_ years on, he is still struck now and then with bouts of missing them.  The way they were back then, more than the way they are now: he’s not naïve enough to think that he could take prolonged exposure to Dom and his current Artistic Vision.  But he does find himself nostalgic for nights spent drinking sticky purple concoctions Yusuf advised them not to question.  He misses lending his notes to Ariadne, and getting them back with doodles in the margin.  He misses three AM drunken heart-to-hearts with Dom.  He misses Mal telling him to “ _va te faire foutre_ ,” with genuine affection.

Among other things.

Arthur has been looking forward to this weekend with a strange mixture of anticipation and anxiety.  Ariadne, he knows, will be her usual, irrepressible self—turn up an hour late with clunky Parisian souvenirs and lumpy knitwear she’s forgotten to wrap, and throw herself at him with such unrestrained, uncomplicated affection that Arthur will fail to reprimand her.  Arthur loves Ariadne with all of his heart, which is really what got him into this mess in the first place.

He is less certain of the others.  He gets postcards from Mal sometimes, in her terrible handwriting, usually some mixture of French and English and with a reference to another new lover Arthur thinks he is supposed to mention to Dom.  Arthur and Dom’s communications are typically male, in that they are generally limited to times when one of them is likely to be in the vicinity of the other, at which point they eat red meat and don’t talk about Mal.  It’s been a long time since they were all together, properly, and Arthur’s honestly not sure how it’s going to go.

Still, Arthur is nothing if not prepared.  He has a suitcase full of good shirts and enough wine to appease an angry Frenchwoman.  The corners on his gifts are perfectly creased.  Arthur has his shit very much together.

He’s the first one there.  Ariadne’s flight doesn’t get in until the following evening; Yusuf and Dom are supposed to be driving up separately on Friday.  Robert is arriving Saturday.  Mal, Arthur can only assume, will be fashionably late.

The key is on top of the porch light, as Ariadne said it would be.  It is the first and only thing to go entirely as planned.

-

The whole weekend was Ariadne’s idea.  Some friend of hers with a refurbished lake house and, no doubt, the same stars in his eyes Arthur had seen in half their Freshman English class (if there was anyone not a little bit in love with Ariadne after hearing her gush about Elizabeth Bishop, Arthur had yet to meet them).  She called him one Friday night in December as he was making the difficult decision between Pad Kee Mow and Pad Woon Sen.

“Hey,” he said, “can I call you back in five?  I’ve got someone on hold.”

“Your takeout can wait, Arthur.  This is important.”

Arthur met Ariadne his third week of college.  They’ve known each other a long time now.  He was there for all the ill-advised haircuts, the mad sprints for train platforms, and the great ice-skating fiasco of 2010.  He’s well aware that the plans of Ariadne tend to be lacking somewhat in their execution. 

All in all, it’s hardly surprising that the whole thing falls spectacularly to pieces.  He should be thankful no one’s sleeping in the bathtub.

(It’s the first thing he checks: number of beds, and then the state of the kitchen cupboards.  Theo, the owner, has been kind enough to leave them some fresh—milk, bread, the essentials—but Arthur could do with running to the store before anyone else arrives.)

In the meantime, he sets the thermostat, and makes a pot of coffee, and turns on the television in the living room for background noise as much as anything.

It is at this point that Arthur sees the words BLIZZARD WARNING and FLIGHTS SUSPENDED scrolling the bottom of the screen.  “—up to two feet of snow,” says the newsreader.  “Travellers should brace themselves for _major_ disruptions.”

“Well, fuck,” says Arthur, and goes to get a drink.

-

Ariadne is stranded in Reykjavík.  Mal remains stubbornly incommunicado, but Arthur can’t imagine she’s having better luck.  Yusuf and Robert are both staying put, for the time being.

It’s already snowing, though not yet full force.  Arthur is curled up on the couch, resigned to a considerably quieter weekend than expected, when there is a sudden, urgent pounding at the front door.  _Dom_ , he thinks, throwing back the blanket.  Fucking Dom, of _course_ he’d be stubborn enough to drive up, blizzard be damned.  Dating Mal was basically playing with fire; the man’s always had a death wish.

It’s not Dom.

“Fuck _me_ ,” says the human popsicle currently dripping on the hall floor, “my bollocks have retreated so far inside my body I don’t think they’re ever coming back down.”

This, evidently, is how Eames opens conversation with someone he dumped unceremoniously five years ago.  No falsely jovial _Arthur, you’re looking well_.  No apologetic _terribly rude of me to drop by unannounced._ No _hello, darling_ , which is just as well, since if a single term of endearment falls from Eames’s lips this weekend Arthur will not be held responsible for his actions.

No, Eames sidesteps social convention and goes for the testicular status report, which is so 100% in character Arthur thinks he might punch something.  Because of course Arthur doesn’t run into his ex-boyfriends in department stores, like a normal person; he gets trapped with them in lake houses for long weekends, even when they’re _supposed_ to be the other side of the Atlantic Ocean charming complete strangers into selling treasured family heirlooms.

As if to add insult to injury, Eames is sporting a terrible, misshapen bobble hat that bears an uncomfortable resemblance to one Arthur received from Ariadne last Christmas.

Arthur honestly isn’t sure what to find most offensive about the situation.

Ultimately, he plumps for the sheer _fucking stupidity_ , since that seems least like stepping on a landmine.

“Are you an idiot?” Arthur demands, like he doesn’t already know the answer.  “What the _fuck_ were you thinking driving out here?  People _die_ in blizzards.”

“Ah,” says Eames, “well.  Something rather lost in translation, there.  In England blizzard warnings mean delayed trains and a shortage of Bovril.”

“It is _astonishing_ to me that you’ve survived this long.”

-

“I don’t actually have a death wish,” Eames assures him, while Arthur attempts to ascertain that there is no danger of either frostbite or hypothermia without seeming to care too much (no mean feat).  “Promises to keep, and all that.”

Arthur doesn’t rise to the bait.  There are few things he would not rather be doing than standing here listening to Eames quote Robert Frost, but since escape seems unlikely for the time being, he’ll settle for uncomfortable silence.  He refuses to follow this script. 

Besides, he’s a little preoccupied mentally drafting furious text messages to Ariadne (most of them variations on _et tu, Brute?_ ).  She might not be able to control the weather, but she can sure as hell control who she invites to things.  At the very least Arthur was due a heads up.  It’s not like he’s that surprised they’re still friendly, but in all their discussions of this weekend Eames’s name never came up.

The whole thing stinks of a set up, and Arthur’s more than a little stung to find himself the punchline.

Instead of asking, _what promises_? or—worse— _what the hell would you know about keeping promises?_ Arthur says, “I’m in the first bedroom on the left.”  Clarifies: “The rest are up for grabs.”

Eames says, “I’ll be sure to Goldilocks them before I commit to anything.”

“The thermostat’s by the back door,” Arthur continues, steadily.  “There’s coffee in the pot, and towels in the closet by the bathroom.”

Perhaps Eames is on the verge of saying something more, but Arthur is already out the door and up the stairs, with every intention of hiding in his room like the adult he is.

-

Strangely enough, it isn’t Eames’s attempt to “mull” the 2009 Château Duhart-Milon Arthur brought to placate Mal, or his use of the spare bedding to build a blanket fort in the living room, that ultimately sets them off.  Arthur refuses to react to either of these things.  Eames lives his life like it’s a performance; he thrives on drama.  Deprived of an audience, there’s not a lot he can do.

Eames is already in the kitchen when Arthur gets up, which is a little weird because Eames is the opposite of a morning person, but hey, _jetlag_.  Arthur says, “There’s breakfast tea in the cupboard,” by way of good morning, because it’s easier— _safer_ —to state facts than to engage in proper conversation.

This, of all things, is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Eames says, with a strained smile.

“Tell you where the tea is?”

“Play attentive host.  This isn’t the weekend either of us was expecting.”

“What exactly _were_ you expecting, Eames?”  It’s equal parts challenge and genuine curiosity—Arthur is interested in spite of himself.  Of the two of them, after all, Eames knew best what he was getting himself into.

“To begin with, that there would be more than the two of us here.  But also that we might actually talk.  You know, like _human beings_.”

Arthur shakes his head.  “I can’t decide if that makes you naïve or just incredibly arrogant.”

“I don’t know what you think is happening here,” Eames says, voice rising, “but I can assure you I’m not _trying_ _to be difficult._ I’m walking on bleeding eggshells with you, always have been!”

Arthur laughs, but it’s a sad imitation of one—high-pitched, almost hysterical to his ears, _fuck_ , why can’t he be cool and impassive, just once?  “Eames, you’re incapable of tiptoeing around _anyone_.  You just go ahead and trample right over them.”

“I’m not perfect,” Eames agrees, readily.  “I’m so aware of it.  But do you have the _faintest idea_ what it’s like to be with someone who _never makes mistakes_?  It’s a fucking nightmare.”

“I _make mistakes_ ,” Arthur snaps, unsure why he’s arguing this point particularly when he’s spent most of his life trying to convince the world otherwise, except that Eames has always brought this out in him, this defensiveness—more than anyone.  “You’re proof enough of that.”

He knows the moment he says it that he’s crossed a line, which is funny, because Arthur thought he knew all of them.  Arthur decided on them, laid them, made the repairs when Eames ploughed through them with customary tact.  Eames doesn’t have lines.  Eames is above them.  He asks awkward questions and ignores personal space, is beautiful and indestructible.  Arthur’s always been the one with everything to lose.

And yet.

The words hang between them, ugly with accusation: _you’re proof enough of that._

Eames’s lips twist bitterly, and then he says, “The whole time we were together you were just waiting for me to fuck up.  I thought for once I’d come in ahead of schedule.”

-

It’s four AM, and Arthur is baking.  A bad habit cultivated in college, in the hope that people would be too distracted by Arthur’s black and white banana bread to notice his complete social ineptitude.  Right now he’s trying to distract himself—from thoughts of Eames, and the way his face looked saying _you were just waiting for me to fuck up._ There’s a batch of muffins already cooling on the rack, and another in the oven.  It’s stupid, he knows—a dead giveaway.  A flashing, neon sign saying ARTHUR’S UPSET and he’s going to have to get rid of it all before morning if he doesn’t want Eames to know that.

 _Or_ , he thinks.  Or—.

“You’re upset,” says Eames, from behind him.

Arthur sets the mixing bowl down on the counter, the handle of the spoon beginning its inevitable slide into the batter, and turns to face him.  Eames’s features are half in shadow, because Arthur’s baking in the dark.

As you do.

“Yes,” says Arthur, trying the words in his mouth, “I’m upset.”

(The world doesn’t end, as it turns out.)

“You left me before I could leave you.”

“I was a bastard,” says Eames, but Arthur shakes his head because that might be true but it’s not the point, really, is it?  Not all of it.  And the thing he can’t begin to wrap his head around, the thought that has him wide awake in the middle of the night, that has his heart beating furiously in his chest—

“How could you not _know_?”                                                                                                                            

Eames says, “Know—?”

Arthur kisses him.

Arthur steps forward into Eames’s space and presses fingertips to the nape of his neck and _kisses him_.  He feels the moment that Eames draws breath, short and sharp and then shaky on the exhale, like he’s terrified, suspended on the edge of something—Arthur knows the feeling, _fuck_ —and then there are warm hands gripping his waist, broad forearms sliding up his back, pulling him in.  The movement draws the fabric of Arthur’s sweatshirt upward, exposing enough skin that he shudders against Eames’s mouth. 

All that time spent worrying Eames would see straight through him, and he never did.  That was the problem.

It’s fierce, desperate, bruising.  Arthur pushes forward until their chests are flush together, until Eames is forced to take a step back, and then another—until Eames’s back hits the edge of the kitchen counter and Arthur can feel him hard against his hip.  When he pulls back, just a little, Eames’s eyes are bright and his mouth is swollen and he says, “ _Arthur_ ,” like it’s a prayer.  “Arthur,” he tries, again, as Arthur presses kisses along the line of his jaw, teeth to the skin of his shoulder.

Arthur drops to his knees without hesitation, pulling at the ties on Eames’s sweatpants until they fall around his ankles.  For a moment Arthur just breathes against him, and Eames’s hands come to rest in his hair, but gently—almost reverently.  He can feel the muscles in Eames’s thighs quivering, drags one thumb deliberately over the bone of his hip.  Eames is breathing hard but saying nothing, like he’s afraid to break the silence, shatter the moment.

Arthur leans forward to run his tongue along the curve of Eames’s cock, base to tip, and it is shattered.  “Fuck,” says Eames, “you’re—.”  His hips stutter with his words as Arthur swallows him down.  “Perfect, Arthur, you’re—perfect.”

It’s not quite a rhythm, and the better for it, but they fall into it like it’s familiar as breathing.  Arthur grips Eames’s hips hard enough to bruise and takes him in as far as he can and it’s—fuck, it’s like nothing else.  It’s like drowning, slowly, and when Eames says his name again Arthur breaks the surface.

“Arthur,” Eames says— _pleads—_ “I’m—.”  There is a crash as his scrabbling fingers catch the cooling rack and send pumpkin muffins spilling across the kitchen floor.  “Fuck,” he says, “I love you, _fuck_.  You know I—.  Arthur, you’re— _fuck_.”  He’s right on the edge, whole body trembling, and when Arthur pops his lips over the head with a wordless cry comes across his tongue.

There is silence.

Arthur presses his brow to the hot skin of Eames’s thigh and says, “I’d never have given you up.”

-

In the end, Eames gets through three and a half floor muffins before Arthur confiscates the rest.

-

When Ariadne turns up two days later, jetlagged and complete with ugly ceramic Vikings, Eames answers the door in boxers and a Kiss the Cook apron.  She says, “Theo won’t be wanting that back, then.”

Eames grins.

**Author's Note:**

> Written (and posted, a little belatedly) for the Flash Freeze Fic challenge - thank you kate_the_reader and scribblscrabbl for the inspiration!
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> I know nothing about wine other than that it is delicious, and occasionally my downfall.
> 
> Similarly, I fall on the Eames spectrum of knowledge about blizzards.
> 
> Yusuf and I have in common [our really excellent taste in mugs](http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41FM9bT53oL._SY300_.jpg).


End file.
